"Shall we begin?" Mira gestured to the three rickety stools that served as client seating. "I'm sure you all have very compelling pitches prepared."
The three representatives arranged themselves in a triangle, each maintaining careful distance from the others. Kieran retreated further into his corner, trying to project an aura of mysterious craftsmanship while actually just wanting to hide under his workbench.
Stone spoke first, because of course he did. "Master Ashford, the Empire's position is straightforward. We're at war. Our soldiers need equipment. You have the ability to provide superior weapons and armor. It's your patriotic duty to support the defense of our territories."
"Master Ashford isn't Valorian," Mira pointed out. "He's a citizen of Millhaven, which is neutral territory."
"A technicality that can be corrected," Stone said. "The Empire is prepared to offer Master Ashford citizenship, military rank, and a comfortable position within our weapons development program. Five thousand gold signing bonus, plus materials and a fully staffed forge facility."
"A gilded cage," Cassian interjected. "The Empire speaks of duty but means conscription. They would chain Master Ashford's god-given talents to their war machine, forcing him to create instruments of death for political gain."
"As opposed to your alternative?" Stone shot back. "Locking his work away in some temple vault where it serves no practical purpose?"
"The Sanctum doesn't lock away blessings—we protect them." Cassian turned to Kieran, his intense gaze making Kieran want to shrink further into the shadows. "Master Ashford, your gift for creation is divine in origin. The ability to craft artifacts is mentioned in the holy texts—a blessing bestowed by the System itself, which serves as conduit for higher powers. Such blessings shouldn't be sold to the highest bidder or pressed into service for secular wars. They should be dedicated to holy purposes, used to defend the faithful and combat the forces of darkness."
"And in exchange for this 'dedication?'" Mira asked skeptically.
"The Sanctum would provide sanctuary, unlimited resources, and the knowledge that his work serves righteousness rather than greed or nationalism." Cassian's expression radiated absolute certainty. "We could offer three thousand gold immediately, plus a comfortable residence within our cathedral grounds and guaranteed protection from those who would exploit his talents."
"Guaranteed isolation, you mean," Sylvie interjected smoothly. "Locked away in your religious compound, cut off from the world, creating exclusively for Sanctum interests while they claim it's for your own spiritual benefit. How convenient."
She stood and moved closer to Kieran, her body language shifting to something more personal, more conspiratorial. Up close, Kieran could smell her perfume—expensive and calculated to be appealing without being overwhelming.
"Master Ashford," she said, her voice dropping to an intimate register, "let me be honest with you. The Empire wants to use you. The Sanctum wants to control you. But the Consortium? We want to make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams while giving you complete creative freedom."
"At what cost?" Mira asked.
"A simple partnership agreement. Asterlin gets exclusive rights to distribute your work through our trade networks. You create whatever you want, whenever you want, at prices you set. We handle all the business details, all the logistics, all the tedious negotiations with clients. You just focus on your craft." Sylvie's smile was dazzling. "We're prepared to offer seven thousand gold upfront, plus forty percent of all sales revenue. You'd be a wealthy man within a year. Wealthy enough to buy your own compound, hire your own staff, work in complete independence."
"Except he'd be tied to your distribution network," Stone said. "Dependent on your 'logistics' and 'negotiations,' which means dependent on your goodwill. The moment he becomes inconvenient or demands more favorable terms, the Consortium could strangle his business simply by refusing to distribute his work."
"We prefer to call it 'mutually beneficial cooperation,'" Sylvie said, her tone still pleasant but her eyes hardening. "Unlike some organizations, we don't believe in coercion or false righteousness. We offer honest business arrangements where both parties profit."
"You offer a contract that sounds generous but contains more traps than a dungeon," Cassian said coldly. "I've read Consortium agreements. They're designed to sound fair while actually granting you total control. Master Ashford would discover his 'creative freedom' came with extensive restrictions, all buried in legal language he'd need a scholar to interpret."
The three representatives fell into argument, each attacking the others' proposals while defending their own. The noise level increased, voices overlapping in a cacophony of competing interests.
Kieran felt his anxiety ramping up. Too many people, too much pressure, too many decisions he didn't want to make.
Then Mira's hand found his under the workbench and squeezed twice—their signal for "trust me, I've got this."
"ENOUGH," Mira said, her voice cutting through the argument like a blade. "This isn't productive. Master Ashford isn't going to make a decision based on whoever yells loudest."
"Then what does he base his decision on?" Stone demanded.
"Compatibility," Mira said simply. "Master Ashford is an artist first, businessman second. He needs to work with people who understand and respect his creative process. So here's what's going to happen: each of you will submit a detailed written proposal outlining exactly what you're offering and what you expect in return. No hidden clauses, no vague promises, complete transparency. We'll review them and make our decision based on what serves Master Ashford's interests best."
"And how do we know you'll be fair in that assessment?" Sylvie asked.
"You don't," Mira said bluntly. "You'll just have to trust that we're professional enough to recognize a good deal when we see one. Of course, any attempts to pressure, threaten, or manipulate us would result in immediate disqualification from consideration."
She let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "You have three days to submit your proposals. Written, detailed, honest. We'll review them and give you our answer within a week. Until then, Master Ashford will not be taking meetings, accepting visits, or responding to any communications from your organizations. Are we clear?"
The three representatives exchanged glances, clearly unhappy with the arrangement but unable to find an obvious flaw in the logic.
"The Empire expects—" Stone began.
"The Empire will receive the same consideration as everyone else," Mira interrupted. "No more, no less. Three days, Quartermaster."
Stone's jaw worked, but he nodded stiffly and left.
Cassian stood, pressing his hands together in prayer. "May the divine guide your decision toward righteousness," he said, then added with barely concealed intensity, "and may you recognize the danger of choosing worldly power over spiritual truth."
After he left, only Sylvie remained. She studied Kieran with calculating eyes, then smiled—more genuine this time, less professionally manufactured.
"You're smarter than I gave you credit for," she said to Mira. "Playing us off each other, buying time to assess options. That's good business sense."
"Thank you," Mira said neutrally.
"For what it's worth, the Consortium really would give you a fair deal. We're not monsters—just pragmatists who recognize talent when we see it." She glanced at Kieran. "You're terrified right now, aren't you? All this attention, all these powerful people wanting pieces of you. I can see it in your eyes."
Kieran wanted to deny it, but his voice wouldn't cooperate.
"That's actually why we'd be good partners," Sylvie continued. "The Empire would break you through demands and pressure. The Sanctum would smother you with restrictions and piety. But the Consortium understands that creative talent requires space to breathe. We'd protect you from the worst of the politics while letting you work in peace."
"Is that part of your official proposal?" Mira asked.
"Consider it a preview." Sylvie moved toward the door, then paused. "One more thing—unofficially, just as advice between businesspeople. Lady Celeste's victory made you valuable. But staying valuable means managing expectations carefully. If you produce too many artifacts too quickly, you'll flood the market and decrease their value. If you produce too few, you'll frustrate powerful clients who might take matters into their own hands. Finding that balance is going to be your biggest challenge."
After she left, silence filled the forge like water rushing into a vacuum.
Kieran finally found his voice. "That was—"
"Exhausting," Mira finished, collapsing onto one of the stools. "And that was just the opening round. They're going to push harder, Kieran. Each of them is going to try to pressure us in different ways while pretending they're not."
"What are we going to do?"
"Exactly what I said—review the proposals carefully. But..." Mira's expression turned calculating. "I'm already leaning toward one option."
"Which one?"
"The Consortium."
Kieran blinked. "Really? They're merchants. They only care about profit."
"Exactly. Which makes them predictable." Mira stood and began pacing, her business mind clearly working through scenarios. "The Empire wants control—they'd try to conscript you or bind you with military obligations. The Sanctum wants purity—they'd restrict what you could make and who you could work with. But the Consortium just wants money. As long as you're profitable, they're happy. That's a relationship we can work with."
"But Sylvie basically admitted their contracts are traps."
"Their standard contracts are traps. But we're not accepting standard terms." Mira's smile turned sharp. "See, here's what they don't know: you're not just valuable because you can make artifacts. You're valuable because you made Dawnbreaker—an A-rank artifact that helped win the Grand Melee. That's not just impressive, it's unprecedented for someone your age and experience level. They need you more than you need them."
"That doesn't feel true."
"Feelings aren't facts. Fact: you have a legendary class. Fact: you've proven you can create combat-viable artifacts. Fact: every major power in the region is competing for access to your services. That's leverage, Kieran. We just need to use it correctly."
Kieran sat heavily on his stool, processing everything. "You said you're leaning toward the Consortium. Not committing to them?"
"Not yet. First, we'll review all three proposals in detail. Then we'll negotiate with the Consortium—not accept their first offer, but push back, demand better terms, establish that we're partners, not assets. And we'll keep the other two interested as backup options, so the Consortium knows they can be replaced if they get greedy."
"Playing them off each other," Kieran said. "Like Mayor Fletcher suggested."
"Exactly. The moment we align exclusively with one faction, we lose negotiating power. But if we maintain relationships with all three while committing to none, we stay valuable to everyone."
It made sense from a business perspective. It still made Kieran want to vomit from anxiety.
"What if I don't want to work with any of them?" he asked quietly. "What if I just want to run my small forge and make good swords for local clients?"
Mira's expression softened. "Then we figure out how to make that happen. But Kieran, being realistic—that ship has sailed. You're too visible now, too valuable. The best we can do is control how that value is leveraged. We can't make the attention go away, but we can direct it in ways that keep you as safe and independent as possible."
"Safe and independent while working for merchants who see me as a profit source."
"Safe and independent while working with merchants who recognize that killing the golden goose would be bad business," Mira corrected. "It's not ideal. It's just the best option available."
Kieran was quiet for a long moment, staring at his workbench—the scarred wood, the carefully arranged tools, the space where he'd created Dawnbreaker and dozens of lesser works. This was supposed to be his sanctuary, his escape from the madness.
Now it was the center of a political storm.
"Okay," he said finally. "We wait for the written proposals. We review them carefully. And then we negotiate with the Consortium for better terms than they're initially offering."
"That's my boy," Mira said, relief evident in her voice. "This is going to work out, Kieran. I promise."
He wanted to believe her. He really did.
But as he looked at the stack of commission requests on his counter, thought about the three powerful factions circling his forge like sharks, remembered Baron Thaddeus and Greyhaven and what happened when people with power decided you were too valuable to remain free—
Kieran couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking toward a cage again.
This one just had better decorations and was being presented as a partnership.
But a cage was a cage, no matter how nicely it was furnished.
Over the next three days, the proposals arrived.
The Empire's was exactly as expected—formal, legalistic, offering security and resources in exchange for exclusive service. Reading between the lines, it was conscription with a salary.
The Sanctum's was wrapped in religious language, but fundamentally demanded that Kieran dedicate his work to their theological agenda, creating only weapons they deemed righteous.
The Consortium's was surprisingly straightforward—a partnership agreement with revenue sharing, distribution rights, and what appeared to be reasonable creative freedom.
"It's still a trap," Kieran said, reading through the Consortium contract for the third time. "Look at this clause—'all works created during the contract period.' That means everything I make belongs partially to them, even if it's not for them."
"Good catch," Mira said, making a note. "We'll demand that gets changed to 'all works distributed through Consortium channels.' Your personal projects remain your own."
"And this part about 'reasonable production quotas'—what does 'reasonable' mean?"
"Whatever they decide it means, unless we define it specifically. We'll demand exact numbers—maximum four major commissions per year, or something similar. No vague language."
They spent hours going through the contract, identifying every trap, every piece of manipulative language, every clause that sounded fair but actually granted excessive control.
By the time they finished, Mira had two full pages of required changes.
"Think they'll accept all this?" Kieran asked.
"Not all of it. But we'll negotiate. Meet somewhere in the middle that's actually fair instead of exploitative." Mira grinned. "This is the fun part."
"Your definition of 'fun' is deeply concerning."
"Says the man who spent six weeks obsessing over microscopic imperfections in a sword's fuller."
"That's different. That's craft."
"This is craft too. Just with words instead of metal."
The negotiation meeting was scheduled for the following afternoon. Sylvie arrived with two assistants and a confidence that suggested she expected to walk away with a signed contract.
She left three hours later looking slightly shell-shocked, having agreed to terms far more favorable to Kieran than her original proposal.
"You're a shark," she'd said to Mira, something like respect in her voice. "The Consortium could use someone like you."
"I'm already employed," Mira had replied sweetly.
After Sylvie left, they sat in the forge reviewing the modified contract.
"So," Mira said. "This is it. Sign this, and you're officially partnered with the Asterlin Trade Consortium. They handle distribution and client negotiations. You create four major commissions per year—your choice of clients, your creative control, your timeline. They get twenty-five percent of sales revenue. You keep the rest and all rights to personal projects."
"It's a better deal than I thought we'd get," Kieran admitted.
"It's a good deal. Not perfect—no deal is perfect—but good." Mira looked at him seriously. "Are you ready for this? Once you sign, there's no going back to anonymity. You're officially in business with one of the major factions."
Kieran thought about Baron Thaddeus, about cages and threats and forced labor. This was different. This was a choice, with terms he'd negotiated, protection he'd secured.
It was still scary. But it was his decision.
"Let's do it," he said.
He signed the contract with a hand that only trembled slightly.
And just like that, everything changed again.
Kieran Ashford, the blacksmith who just wanted to make nice swords in peace, was now officially partnered with one of the most powerful trade organizations in the region.
"First commission comes through the Consortium in two weeks," Mira said, reading the final terms. "They've already got clients lined up. Wealthy ones."
"Great," Kieran said weakly. "That's... great."
"Hey." Mira squeezed his shoulder. "You're going to be okay. We're going to be okay. This is the beginning of something good, I promise."
Kieran looked at his forge—his sanctuary, his workspace, his home.
"I hope you're right," he said.
And tried very hard to believe it.